


the weight of family and the pull's gravity

by jublis



Series: heirloom [4]
Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, LET'S TALK ABOUT THE PARALLELS BETWEEN SOKKA & KATARA AND AZULA & ZUKO, Ozai (Avatar) Being a Terrible Parent, Sibling Bonding, Sibling Rivalry, brief mentions of azula's redemption, i aged sokka and zuko by like a year?, i made myself & my beta cry, lu ten is there for one second and so is gran-gran, me: ignores the comics, the angst train is coming to town, uses jewish traditions as inspiration for lore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:46:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25061830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jublis/pseuds/jublis
Summary: “Good fight,” the brother says, not looking at her. His hand is right behind her, and if he were someone kinder, he’d reach out and place it on her shoulder. If she were someone kinder, she’d let him.“Good fight,” she murmurs instead, and leaves it at that.The brother doesn’t say he loves her out loud. But she hears it all the same.It is the last time.Or, a study in siblings. Featuring growing closer, growing apart, things that were said, and things that were not.
Relationships: Azula & Zuko (Avatar), Katara & Sokka (Avatar), Katara & Zuko (Avatar), Sokka/Suki/Zuko (Avatar), Sokka/Zuko (Avatar)
Series: heirloom [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1808977
Comments: 98
Kudos: 868





	the weight of family and the pull's gravity

**Author's Note:**

> hi again! didja miss me ;)
> 
> i'm really proud of this one. thank you lily for proofreading it & thank you abby for helping me brainstorm! the parallels between these characters always blow me away and it was so so fun to finally explore them.
> 
> anyway! title is from "heirloom" by sleeping at last, because of course it is. see y'all at the end notes!

**i.**

Katara is born on a moonlit night in mid-Winter. If this were a different kind of story, Sokka would call it a foreshadowing. 

He remembers the day in snippets. His mother’s sweat-stricken face, glowing under the dim light of a fire; his father’s panicked ramblings to Bato, after he’d gotten kicked out of the room for freaking out; Gran-Gran’s wrinkled face opening in a rare smile, her eyes alight with softness and cooing at the bundle of furs between her arms. The way he crawls into his mother’s bed the moment he’s allowed inside their home, pressing up against her and breathing her in.

Sokka remembers the way she’d run her fingers through his hair. She smelled like firewood and salt and sea. He doesn’t think he’ll ever forget it. 

“Sokka,” Gran-Gran says from across the room, quietly. She holds the bundle in her arms next to the fire, rocking backwards and forwards. “Let your Mother rest. Don’t you want to meet your sister?”

“Is she well?” Kya asks, scrambling to seat up. Sokka yelps and almost tumbles from the bed at the suddenness, but manages to keep his balance. His mother’s eyes are glazed over with exhaustion, dark hair askew and sticking to her dark skin. “She cried, didn’t she? I heard her.”

“All is well, Kya,” Gran-Gran says, unmoving. “Sleep. All will still be well in the morning.”

Sokka watches his mother lean back down, eyes closing involuntarily. Gran-Gran motions to him and he does his best to move quietly, tiptoeing over to her even though his feet make no sound on the carpets and furs padding the floor. The fire flickers and burns and it makes Sokka think that maybe their house is melting, but he blinks and it’s gone. He sits in front of Gran-Gran and peers curiously between her arms.

The bundle has a nose, and two eyes. It also has a mouth and the tiniest ears Sokka has ever seen, with a thin shadow of dark hair on top of its head. 

“Katara,” Gran-Gran says, and nothing more.

“She’s so small,” Sokka says as means of reply. He puts one finger on the tip of her nose, but the bundle—Katara—doesn’t stir. “What if we lose her?”

Gran-Gran smiles. Carefully, she places Katara in Sokka’s arms, showing him how to hold her head up and support her weight. He says nothing, looking at the small face that is also his. Katara squirms and doesn’t open her eyes, and Sokka has the sudden to press her against his chest, to hold on as tight as he can, but he doesn’t. Instead, he watches.

_Hi_ , he says to her without opening his mouth. _I’m Sokka. Your name is Katara and I don’t think you know that yet but I’m your brother and you’re my sister._

He wants to greet her properly, but Gran-Gran is still looking at him and mom’s asleep and he doesn’t want to wake her up. Maybe if he thinks hard enough, Katara will understand him anyway.

Years later, Sokka won’t know if the next thing he heard was real, or if his brain made it up to fill in the gaps. All he remembers is the sound of his mother’s voice, and the way Gran-Gran’s smile immediately disappeared, like melting ice on her face. He never looks away from Katara, which probably means the whole thing was a dream; he can see his mother lying on her side, head turned to the window, unblinking; he can see the sky, dark as it always is in Winter, and the fear on his grandmother’s eyes.

“The Moon is out tonight,” Kya says. “You didn’t tell me the Moon was out tonight.”

“There was no need,” Gran-Gran answers, but her voice is stiff. “What would it change, if you knew?”

“The Moon is out tonight,” Kya repeats. “The tides are rising. And my daughter is born.” She looks away from the window. Her gaze is feverish, but almost amused; she looks at Gran-Gran with the hints of a smile on her mouth, and under the flickering firelight, she could be already laughing. “My daughter rises with the Moon,” she says, breathless, and flops back down on her pillow. Her eyes close, as if that single sentence took out all of her strength. “Tui and La save her,” she whispers. “My baby.”

Katara opens her eyes. She stares at Sokka with a curious gaze, blue against blue.

He should’ve known it then. His own eyes are the color of a cloudless sky. Hers are like the ocean during a storm. 

_Hi, Sokka,_ she seems to say. _It’s nice to meet you._

**. . .**

The Sun is at its highest in the sky when word comes. It is the Summer Solstice, and Lady Ursa has given birth to a daughter. Azula, she is named, after her grandfather. If this were a different story, Zuko would have known what it meant. His sister’s life was never her own to begin with. 

But Zuko is only three years old and he stands proudly next to his mother’s bed, posture straight as a prince’s is supposed to be, though his beaming smile is anything but. He walked into the room jumping on the heels of his feet, but one look from his father made him stumble and go the rest of the way as he practiced—one feet after the other, not too fast and not too slow. His tutors always say he’s a slow learner, but Zuko doesn’t think so.

( _I know how to do things_ , he tells Lu Ten. _I can know how to know things. I’m not slow. They’re just fast. But I don’t think Father knows that._

Lu Ten laughs and ruffles his hair. Zuko looks up at his cousin and wonders why he looks so sad.)

“Ursa,” Zuko’s father says, lowly, but his voice carries. “I take it all went well?”

“Ozai,” Ursa answers, formally as ever, though her face glows. “All is well. She’s beautiful.”

Ozai turns to the servant holding Azula in her arms, a bundle of white cloth. Other than her and the Fire Sage to bear witness of the birth, no one else was allowed inside the room; secretly, Zuko is glad. If he’d seen his mother cry he doesn’t think he would’ve been able to _not_ cry, too, and he already knows he shouldn't do that in front of his father. 

Ozai looks askance to the Fire Sage. “Is it true? Does she have the spark?”

The Fire Sage nods, a tad too quickly. “Yes, my Lord. When she was born, every flame roared with her. It is a good omen, sir.”

“A good omen,” Ozai echoes, musing. He talks to the servant next, though he doesn’t deem it necessary to look at her. “Clean her. I want her bathed by Agni’s light before day’s end.”

“Already?” Ursa asks suddenly, and it makes Zuko startle. He’s not used to hearing anyone talk back to his father, even his mother. His heart beats uncomfortably in his chest as he watches Ozai slowly turn to look at her, his expression dark. Ursa is looking directly at him, hands tightening on the covers on top of her.

Seeming to realize her mistake, Ursa’s next words are measured. “I apologize, my Lord,” she says, keeping her head bowed. “I merely meant to say—isn’t it too soon? She is barely hours old. Prince Zuko was not bathed in Agni’s light until his first week of life was completed.”

“No,” Ozai says. “He was not.” 

Zuko looks down at his feet. It’s a story he’s heard a thousand times, but it’s hard to grow past the shame of it. The firstborn of Prince Ozai, born in the dead of night on the coldest day of the season. When he first cried, all the candles in the room went out. 

It still meant something. It still made him a firebender. But to snuff light out instead of bring it in; to be born to a moonless sky instead of a rising sun—an omen, certainly. But Father doesn’t like what it means.

“Is it not wiser to wait?” Ursa asks. “To make sure she—”

“It is not your place to question me, Ursa,” Ozai says, his voice rumbling. “You know better than that.”

Ursa thins her lips, and for one moment, Zuko thinks she’ll keep going. But then her face morphs into a semblance of calm, and she backs down. “I apologize, my Lord,” she says, with a small laugh. “It is merely the worries of a mother. Our daughter shall be bathed in Agni’s light whenever you see fit.”

“Good,” Ozai says, already turning away. He looks at the Fire Sage. “Make the arrangements.”

Then he’s gone. After a few moments, the servant excuses herself with a curtsey and scurries of to prepare a bath for Princess Azula, and the Fire Sage follows her out. Zuko’s shoulders droop, and he sees his mother close her eyes and frown as if fighting off tears. 

He doesn’t want to cry too, so he looks away and bites his lip until his mouth hurts. He doesn’t want to cry, but he looks at the door and thinks, _I didn’t even get to say hello._

  
  


**ii.**

They find out Katara is a waterbender on the same year their mother dies.

Sokka doesn’t make the connection until weeks after the raid. In his head, the two moments are so utterly separate from each other—the before and the after, like splinters in his mind, and his mother is gone and his dad—that it doesn’t even seem that they’re part of the same person’s memory. 

He supposes they aren’t.

“Here,” Katara says, holding her hand out to him. “I think these are pretty.”

“They’re rocks,” Sokka says, just to be difficult. “They’re not supposed to be pretty.”

Katara glares at him. The snow swirls under her feet, but she lets her arm fall to her side. 

“You know what I mean,” she says, and doesn’t even sound angry anymore. She just sounds tired.

“Yeah,” Sokka mutters, kicking slightly at the ground. “I know.”

The wind blows. It’s quiet, and Sokka absolutely hates it. Sure, their tribe has never been the most noisy, but ever since then— _Ever since Mom died,_ he thinks, makes himself think, because trying to soften it won’t change _anything_ _—_ it seems like everything has grown duller. The children are kept inside their homes instead of playing on the snow; the women talk between themselves in hushed voices, as if raising their tones would call the Fire Nation’s attention once more, as if whatever they do changes anything; the men are serious, wary, and none come over to their home anymore, either to drink with Dad or trade stories. 

Mom’s funeral was two days after her death, as was custom. Her body was adorned with ice flowers, sculpted by Gran-Gran and the other elders of the tribe; her hair was braided with the blue ribbon that Hakoda had given her when he proposed. With her hands crossed over her stomach, she looked almost peaceful. They helped to hide the killing wound. 

Dad didn’t show up. Dad hasn’t done much of anything since that day, and Sokka is trying really hard not to be mad at him. At least that’s what he tells himself; he hasn’t _felt_ much of anything since he watched the slow burning of the pyre over the stormy water of the sea, getting further and further until it disappeared completely. Every emotion is fleeting, like ice melting against his skin. Now here, now gone. 

Sokka is only ten, but he thinks he understands. How something can be there and not be there. How fire makes ice run like tears. 

Katara, at the height of her seven years of age, puts her hands on her hips and raises her chin. “Come on. You have to do it. You _promised_.”

He did _promise_ , so he sighs. “Lead the way,” he says, only a little sarcastically. 

His sister _hmmphs_ at him and turns around, walking with a sort of certainty that makes Sokka feel out of place. He’s supposed to be the big brother, the bigger person. He remembers how the first steps Katara took were towards him, and not Gran-Gran or Mom, as they all thought. She used to be so small. _Now_ , Sokka thinks, as he watches she move patches of snow with her hands, _I think she’ll grow taller than me._

The place is near the border between their tribe and the open sea. Officially, it means nothing, so Sokka’s still unsure about what they’re _doing_ , exactly, until they get there and he notices.

It’s the exact same spot where he and Katara stood, shoulder to shoulder, as they watched their mother go. The icebergs to their left and open blueness in front of them, wide and so absolutely infinite Sokka feels dizzy. He looks at Katara with a sort of bewildered expression, and when she looks back, her eyes are more serious than he’s ever seen them. 

“She’s gone and one day we’ll leave,” she says. “So this way someone’ll know where she was for the last time.”

She kneels on the ground and spreads the rocks she collected in front of her. An array of greys and blues, slightly iced over or covered with dark earth, big and small. Sokka sits down next to her and does the same with his. They’re sea crystals. He hadn’t noticed the way he lingered next to the shore as he did what Katara asked, but now, he bites his tongue. 

That’s not—that’s not _tradition_ , he doesn’t say. Water Tribe funerals don’t leave marks on the ground. The bodies are given back to the sea, to Tui and La’s embrace. He has no idea where Katara got the idea from; he doesn’t know any of the other nations’ customs when it comes to death. 

“Should we just,” he tries. “Leave them here? Write something down?”

“I don’t know,” Katara says, frowning. She turns her eyes to him, expectantly. “What do you think?”

He blinks. And then, slowly, he puts the rocks one on side of the other, in a straight line. He wipes some of the ice away, and with one finger, he draws, 愛. 

_Love_. 

Sokka leans back, putting his arms around himself. He is not going to cry. 

Katara uses her head to create some space between his arm and his torso, so she can hug him. She doesn’t say anything, and neither does he. Sokka’s not sure who’s holding who. 

  
  


**. . .**

The last time he says _I love you_ to Azula, Zuko is ten years old. 

Last times are usually difficult to pinpoint. The last time he made Lu Ten laugh, the last time he stuttered while saying his grandfather’s name, the last time he invited Father to watch his firebending practice. There are things you don’t know of until they’re gone. But Zuko keeps those last times close to his chest, looking them over in his head while he waits for sleep. Maybe as hope that it won’t be a last time, after all. Maybe as hope that something will come back, instead of leave. 

Zuko is ten and Azula is seven and their mother is nowhere to be found. 

She’s not dead. No one said the word death. The only funeral they’ve attended—so far—was Fire Lord Azulon’s, and Zuko doesn’t think they would just _not_ give Lady Ursa a proper funeral. That would be dishonorable. 

But not being dead doesn’t make her any less gone. 

“Zuzu,” Azula says from behind him. “Are you ever coming out of your room again?”

Zuko doesn’t bother turning around. He sits by his window, hugging his knees to his chest, as he has been for the past hour. “Go away, Azula,” he says. “I’m not in the mood.”

Azula, because she doesn’t know how to take no for an answer, promptly ignores him and saunters into his room, flopping down on his bed magnanimously. Zuko shifts a little to keep an eye on her, but otherwise doesn’t move. 

“I’m bored,” she states, looking at the ceiling. “Entertain me.”

“That’s not my job,” Zuko says. “Go look for Mai and Ty Lee.”

“I _can’t_ ,” Azula grinds out, turning over and leaning her head on her hand. “In case you’ve forgotten, our dear old grandfather died suddenly. The funeral was yesterday. We still have five days of grief in front of us, and no one but the Royal Family can walk around the palace. Even the servants have scurried off to the shadows. Which is annoying,” she says, as an afterthought, “but it does seem appropriate.”

Zuko rolls his eyes, but doesn’t answer. With Azula, he knows anything he says can and will be used against him; recently, every conversation has taken a turn toward their mother, and Zuko doesn’t think he can handle it right now.

It’s not— _sad_ isn’t the right word. He misses his mother, of course he does; he misses her laugh and the way she always smelled like jasmine and how her long hair tickled his face when she hugged him. He misses her hands with fingers that seemed too long and how she’d sing him to sleep, even though it wasn’t considered appropriate. But Zuko hasn’t found it in himself to be sad just yet. He doesn’t know what he’s feeling.

(He’s terrified.

Mother was a buffer. Father would berate and yell at him in front of her, but he never raised his hand to Zuko when Ursa was there. And now she’s gone and there’s nothing stopping him anymore. It’s almost summer and Zuko has to either ramp up his firebending practice to make up for the bruises, or get used to wearing long sleeves all the time.

He’s so, so scared.)

“Zuzu,” Azula whines, and it’s so childish and unexpected of her that he actually turns to look. When she smiles, slow and syrupy, he knows he’s made a mistake. “Play with me. I’m your favorite sister.”

“You’re my only sister,” Zuko says, still keeping his shoulders tense.

Azula beams at him. “I know! Which is _why_ you have to be a good big brother and play with me.” 

The words are a mockery of their mother’s, but Azula says the last part in such a way that Zuko stares. A blush starts creeping up her neck, and Zuko thinks, _Oh. She’s telling the truth._

He can’t remember the last time she did so, which is just unbearably ironic.

Zuko looks her over. “I will play with you,” he says, slowly. Azula perks up and then tries to pretend she didn’t. “ _If_ ,” he continues, “you at least have the decency to call what we’re doing by the actual name.”

“Oh, brother,” Azula says, and she almost sounds fond. “I thought you’d never ask.” She raises her hand in a little wave, flames dancing through her fingers. “Let’s spar.”

(Brother and sister, on opposites sides of a hidden courtyard. They have their backs to each other, and they count on the same breath: _one, two, three, four, five._

The sister moves first. Her fire is hotter, brighter, with wisps of blue that haven’t been seen in a firebender for years. The brother dodges, using his fists to slice through. He kicks his legs up and flame bursts from where he moves, barely catching himself from falling to the ground. He is not as fast as her, nor as good, not as gifted. And there’s nothing more to it. 

But the sister says nothing. She punches and throws and cackles and runs around him, and the tilt of her mouth is not as cruel as it could be. When the brother finally concedes her victory and lays down on the ground, she does not open fire at him once again. Instead, she walks over and sits next to him, movements unusually clumsy, unplanned. She hugs her legs to her chest in a trait she’s inherited from him, though she doesn’t realize it. 

“Good fight,” the brother says, not looking at her. His hand is right behind her, and if he were someone kinder, he’d reach out and place it on her shoulder. If she were someone kinder, she’d let him. 

“Good fight,” she murmurs instead, and leaves it at that.

The brother doesn’t say he loves her out loud. But she hears it all the same.

It is the last time.)

**iii.**

Dad leaves. 

It’s not unexpected. The war has already come to them. The Southern Water Tribe is tied to it no matter how much time passes. But Sokka had never stopped to think that going also meant leaving. 

Someone can be gone and not dead. Someone can be dead and not gone. 

Dad and Mom. Truly, they were made for each other.

That’s not fair, Sokka berates himself half-heartedly. He’s sitting on the highest point of their village, watching the fading blue of the sky, ignoring the way the cold is soaking into his clothes. There are dark smudges all around him—he used snow to wash off his warrior paint, because he couldn’t bear the idea of walking back into the village the same way he had gone to the bay, dragging his boomerang and weapons beside him, ready to fight. 

_You need to stay and look after the village. Look after your sister._

Isn’t it funny? Three years have taken two parents away from him. Isn’t it just fucking hilarious?

At least he still has Katara. He lost track of who’s supposed to be responsible for who a long time ago.

In a few hours, Sokka will pick himself up and walk over to the village. He’ll kiss Gran-Gran on the cheek and eat his dinner and bicker with his sister and go to sleep. The next day, he’ll start something.

Now, Dad leaves. Sokka can’t blame him. 

**. . .**

It must have been a dream, but for the first week after his banishment, it’s the only thing Zuko thinks about. 

Azula’s voice, in his ear. _Why did you have to open your mouth, Zuko?_

She doesn’t call him Zuzu. He can’t open his eyes—his eye—, can’t do much of anything besides lay there and try not to die. Everything feels like burning and yet he can feel himself shivering. There is a warm hand on his arm and he doesn’t dare to think it could be his sister’s. He doesn’t hate himself that much. But she calls him by his name and Zuko wants to cry. It’s a privilege he doesn’t feel worthy of.

_This was always coming_ , she tells him, whispering into his right ear, his only ear, now. _There was always a limit. Always a tipping point. This was always going to happen to you._

He wants to apologize. He wants to hold Azula close and hear her snarky responses and the way she lit up whenever he paid attention to her. He wants it so much he almost chokes on it. 

But he can’t open his eyes. 

_I’ll get used to it,_ she says. _Being an only child must have its perks._

Zuko feels her leave. She doesn’t say goodbye out loud. But he hears it all the same.

**iv.**

After they meet Hama, none of them can sleep alone. 

It’s an unspoken agreement. They take Appa to the furthest edge of the woods, where the trees aren’t so dense and the moon is as bright as it can be, and as soon as they can’t see the village anymore, they settle down in groups of two. Toph even lets go of her usual earth tent for the night, preferring to room with Aang on the side of one of Appa’s paws. Momo chirps and claims his place on Appa’s head, and the sounds die down.

Sokka has always hated the quiet. Most of all, he’s always hated it when _Katara_ is quiet.

His sister isn’t a huge talker, but she’s never this still. Back home, there was always something to do—an igloo to fix, dinner to cook, dinner to hunt, a birthday to celebrate, clothes to mend—and even if Katara was only sitting by the fire, she was doing _something_. Humming, tapping her feet, braiding her hair. Now, she sits next to Appa, on the opposite side of where Aang and Toph are fast asleep, and just stares at the ground in front of her. 

Sokka sits down next to her, and she doesn’t even blink. He doesn’t know what’s going through her head, but he has a pretty good idea. What Hama did—Sokka can still remember his body not his own, the movements jerky and uncontrollable, the utter wrongness of it all, and he keeps staring at his hand as if daring it to move without his permission. It was, for lack of a better expression, fucked up. And Katara, despite all her flaws, is _good_. 

She cried, afterwards, but then stopped suddenly, her eyes glazing over. She hasn’t said a word since, and Sokka knows exactly what she’s doing. It’s the same thing she did after Mom died: she’s placing all of her emotions on a little room inside her head, and locking it behind her. She’s going to suck it up and pull everything together with her bare hands. She has work to do. 

A few months ago, Sokka probably would have let her. Now, what kind of person would he be if he did?

“Katara,” he says, slowly. “I know we don’t really do emotions.”

Katara blinks, as if coming out of a daze. She looks at him, frowning, as if trying to make sense of the words. The corners of her mouth quirk up, but she can’t hold them there.

“Yeah,” she answers, hollow. “What a statement.”  
  


“Shut up, I’m trying to be serious,” he says, with no real heat. “What I mean is. If you want to talk about this—it—whatever—I’m always here for you, okay? You don’t have to carry everything on your own.” He pauses. “And I’m sorry I ever let you do that. I’m your big brother. I should’ve helped you.”

“It’s not your fault,” Katara says. She starts putting her hair down, movements sluggish. She doesn’t look at him. “I’m not the best at _not_ holding grudges. But. I never blamed you for it.”

“It would be okay if you did,” Sokka says, but Katara is already shaking her head.

“I didn’t. I never did.”

The sky starts to clear up in the horizon. A long silence passes between them, so long that Sokka thinks Katara’s fallen asleep, but then she speaks again.

“Did you know Mom kept a journal?” she says. “I’ve no idea where she got the materials. Leather-bound, written with real ink. I found it in Gran-Gran’s house when I was ten.”

Sokka doesn’t know what to do with that. He blinks at her. 

“There’s something that she wrote that never made much sense to me before, but I think I get it now,” Katara says, not looking at him. She’s running her fingers through her hair methodically, untangling it. “ _The body is always a wound, and the wound is always a daughter._ ” She looks at him, her mouth twisting into something. “Must be why I’m a healer.”

Sokka knows better than anyone the difference between a smile and the baring of teeth.

“Katara,” he says, quietly. “Let me.”

Her face crumbles once more. By the time the first sob echoes through the clearing, Sokka is already holding her, the same way he did when they were kids and Katara got hurt. He tucks her head under his chin and closes his eyes, feeling her shake between his arms. She never did grow taller than him, after all.

“I’m here,” he whispers into her hair. “I’m here. Let it all out.”

For a fleeting moment, he hates Aang for ever coming out of that iceberg. He hates every step that has led them here. 

**. . .**

His sister is crying.

The idea seems so absurd Zuko has to think the words over and over again, tasting how they feel in his mouth, bouncing around in his head. Azula is a crying, writhing mess of tears and blue fire on the ground, her screams making Zuko’s teeth clench and his good ear ring. He can feel Katara’s hand on his chest, warm and solid and real, but he can’t make himself do anything more than weakly grasp it and fall onto his back, gasping. The electricity feels like it’s still snaking its way through his veins, making his hands shake uncontrollably, but that might be just the panic. He doesn’t know. 

“Katara,” he rasps. “Thank you.”

“Zuko,” she says, voice catching. She leans over him, hands worrying at the threadbare cloth of his shirt. She’s done all she can. “Don’t you _dare_.”

He almost laughs. “This is not a goodbye,” he says. “I just really, really want this day to be fucking over.”

Katara cackles unexpectedly. “You and me both,” she says, hoisting him up. She looks over at Azula, who’s screams have dissolved into senseless babbling and pleading. “What are we going to do with her?”

“I—,” Zuko says, and stops. “I don’t know,” he whispers. 

Time passes. Later, Zuko won’t remember this night. He won’t remember getting up and seeing his friends—battered and bruised and scarred but alive—and talking to the Fire Sages, telling them that Ozai is gone and Azula is unfit to rule. He won’t remember signing the papers that confirm his duty to the Fire Nation, or how Uncle Iroh held his face between his hands and kissed his forehead. He won’t remember walking past his father in the courtyard, or what Ozai said to him, or where they moved Azula to before arrangements were made to take her somewhere she'd be well taken care of.

The first thing Zuko remembers is sunlight and skin against his. He wakes up when the sun is at its highest, with Sokka’s head resting on his shoulder and with Suki’s legs intertwined in his. 

Sokka realizes he’s awake first. “Zuko,” he says, the word hanging so heavy Zuko can taste it.

And Zuko cries. “Azula,” he whispers hoarsely. “Azula. Azula.”

She’s not there. 

And even though he is not alone anymore—even though the people he loves the most are all in the same place, even though Sokka kisses his brow and Suki holds him so tight it hurts—Zuko feels like there’s something he will be missing. 

  
  


(It takes time.

But one day, brother and sister sit next to each other in a courtyard. They sit like children, cross legged on the floor, and he serves her tea. She drinks it and tells him his hair looks ridiculous. He flips her off and tells her she’s one to talk—who’s ever heard of a princess with a _shaved head?_

And she laughs.)

**Author's Note:**

> soooo yeah. hope y'all enjoyed that!
> 
> this was fun to write. and sad. and it's my first time properly writing katara and azula so i hope i did them justice!
> 
> as always, comments and kudos are appreciated! if you want to yell at me, you can do that on twitter @bornfrombeauty !!


End file.
